


Washing Dishes

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:20:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Washing Dishes

"Because the kitchen girls are down with the flu and Mrs. Patmore is working hard enough and it's really not that difficult, Mr. Carson. My goodness." She rolls her eyes in exasperation and continues to wash the dishes, capably scrubbing the plates and glasses in the basin of hot, soapy water.

He watches her in consternation. She is the housekeeper of Downton, not the scullery maid, and this work is beneath her, far beneath. Though he won't admit it, he is also bothered at how pretty she looks at the moment with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and an apron covering her dress; her cheeks are pink from the steaming water and there is a fine beading of perspiration around the edges of her hair.

Well. If she's going to take the high road, no one will accuse him of abandoning a lady when her hands are full. He takes off his jacket, hangs it on a chair, pockets his cuff-links, rolls his own sleeves up. She glances at him, frowns.

"What on earth are you doing?"

He ignores her, searches through the kitchen drawers for a dish towel, finally finds one and begins taking dishes from the wet pile and drying them carefully, inch by inch. Doesn't respond to her protests.

"Mr. Carson, there's no reason — for heaven's sake, I can do it, there's not very many since — " He obviously is taking no notice of anything she says, however, so she heaves a sigh of sufferance and continues to wash. There is something so companionable about him being by her side as they work their way through the chore, she has to admit, there's a closeness and warmth that is almost — well, almost intimate. Almost sexual. Marital.

"Mr. Carson?" She washes a plate, rinses, hands it to him.

"Mm?" He turns the plate between layers of towel, dries every bit of the surface until it squeaks between his fingers.

"Would you — well, probably foolish of me to ask, but — would you sing something? I've wanted some music all day and there's been nothing at all." Her face reddens and she resolutely keeps her eyes down on the dishwater, on the task at hand. Singing is a touchy subject with him on the best of days, she knows, but the gaslight is so soft in the kitchen and it's so quiet downstairs right now and she feels sentimental, soft, romantic.

He glances at her, tries to gauge what exactly she wants from him, but it doesn't matter tonight. Not really. Tonight he doesn't feel like being cautious and careful and weighing every word, every small touch for propriety and meaning. She's pretty and calm and there is something strangely right in sharing this work with her; if he closed his eyes for a just a moment, this could be their kitchen, their own small home after a dinner she has cooked for them. They could be getting ready to retire to their own soft bed together where he will —

He does not close his eyes. Instead, he sings, softly, melodiously.

"Every little movement has a meaning of its own…"

She smiles.

"Every thought and feeling by some posture can be shown…"

Her body begins to sway gently back and forth.

"And every love-light that comes a-stealing…"

He stacks the plates quietly, lifts them into the cupboard.

"All your dreams must be revealing…"

She washes the glasses, hands them over. He dries them efficiently, stores them with the others.

"All its sweetness in some appealing little gesture…"

Still swaying with a far-off sparkle in her eyes, she wipes her hands on her apron, drains the sink.

"…some appealing little gesture all of its own."

His voice trails off as he reaches into air, as he realizes she isn't holding anything, that the dishes are all done. Without saying a word, without breaking the spell that the most mundane of activities can sometimes cast over two people who love each other greatly, she places her hand in his outstretched one. He chooses not to speak, either, to not spoil it for once with anxieties, with worries.

Just pulls her close, begins the song again, lets her pull him into a sweet and simple dance in the soft orange light.


End file.
